


Conversations

by Yevynaea



Series: Lost in the Woods [3]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anger, Angst, Angst and Humor, Arguing, Brother Feels, Gen, Loss of Identity, Memory Loss, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), Sad Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, a little bit, except not really, i was only going to write one of these goddamnit, my shitty pretentious writing style, only vaguely mentioned ones but still, that should be a warning tag probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of exchanges between souls lost in the Unknown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, three things. One, this fic was not going to exist but then I got inordinately attached to my already-dead OC Wendell so here you go. Two, this fic is set in between parts of the last one, so definitely read the other two fics first if you want this one to make more sense. Three, Beatrice's family in my mind are basically like the Weasleys, and I decided to call them the Waldfogels because it starts with the same letter and because it translates from Old High German literally to "forest bird" so how could I fucking not.

The first thing Wendell sees when she wakes is _light,_ bright and blinding, and she scrunches her face up, squinting at it.

"Ugh." She rolls over, away from the light, and she wasn't in a bed before, was she?

"Oh, good, you're up." Wendell turns to look for the bluebird from before, because that's Beatrice's voice, she recognizes it...but instead of a bird she is faced with a woman, probably just a few years younger than Wendell's mom. The woman's got the brightest ginger hair Wendell's ever seen.

"Who--" Wendell starts, but she's interrupted.

"It's still me, don't freak out." The woman says, and yep, that's Beatrice's voice.

"You're a shapeshifter." Wendell says, in mild awe. It’s less confusing than talking bluebirds, in a way.

"Yup." Beatrice grins at her and goes to pick up the light, which is in fact a lantern that's been sitting on the bedside table. The bedside table against which a ridiculously sharp axe is leaning.

"What's that for?" Wendell asks warily, as Beatrice moves the lantern over to a table on the other side of the room, upon which rests a wrinkled red cone of a hat that looks kind of like an old fashioned dunce cap.

"The axe is mine; this is my room." A new voice says from the doorway. Wendell looks up, and there's a young-ish man there holding a beat-up silver tea kettle in one hand and Wendell's scarf in the other.

"You're a woodsman." Wendell remembers the French lady's warning, from before, and is more inclined to pay heed to the words now that she's met a shape shifting bluebird woman.

" _The_ Woodsman; I'm pretty much the only one around here." The man huffs a little laugh. "But you can call me Greg. Or Candypants."

"No one is ever going to actually call you that, Greg." Beatrice rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.

"I can dream." Greg jokes, handing Wendell's scarf back to her then putting the kettle on the table and grabbing the lantern. "And your mom says--"

"Beatrice! If that girl is awake bring her to the dining room for dirt!" An older woman's voice calls from somewhere outside the room.

"Yeah, that." Greg says cheerily.

"My mom thinks it's _hilarious_ to call all our food 'dirt'." Beatrice explains. Wendell nods slowly, processing the weirdness of these people. "You think you can make it across the house for dinner?"

"Probably depends on how many stairs there are. I think my ankle twisted, when I fell." Wendell answers. Beatrice nods.

"Yeah, it did. One of my sisters put ice on it for a while once the rest of you was warm enough." She replies, leaving the room.

"There aren't any stairs." Greg says, helping Wendell up. She makes it out the door and down the hall, and then nearly falls, yelping, when a large frog hops out into her and Greg's path. Greg scolds it. "Jason Funderberker, don't go scaring guests!"

The frog croaks unapologetically, and hops out of their path. Wendell eyes it suspiciously as they go past it, and it winks at her.

"Is he a shapeshifter too?" She asks, and Greg laughs.

"No, he's just a frog. Or, he might be immortal, since I've had him since we got here, but yeah. He's just a frog. Only the Waldfogels change shape." He answers.

"...The who?"

"Beatrice and her siblings. Their last name is Waldfogel. They're all bluebirds." Greg explains.

"Beatrice _Waldfogel_." Wendell snorts in amusement. "And she was making fun of _my_ name."

"She does that." Greg says cheerfully.

 

▲■▲■▲■▲

 

In the dining room, Wendell is faced with Beatrice's parents and dozen or so siblings, and her first thought is _Weasleys._ She nearly laughs aloud at that, but turns it into a cough at the last second because she doesn't want to seem rude, which just leads to real coughing and Mrs. Waldfogel wrapping a knitted blanket over Wendell's shoulders. The girl smiles gratefully, and lets herself be hustled into a seat.

She listens to their introductions and waits for the name 'Wirt' to pop up, since Beatrice mentioned the name before, but it doesn't come up. She kinda wants to ask about it, but she decides to wait. She also wants to ask about why the lantern from upstairs is sitting lit on the mantelpiece when there's a fire burning literally right below it. She actually does ask that one, and Greg makes a face almost like a grimace. But sadder.

"It's a long story. We just like it to be where we can see it." He says, which mostly just raises more questions.

 

▲■▲■▲■▲

 

            “Who was it that brought me to the house?” She asks one of Beatrice’s brothers, later, when Greg’s gone out into the woods with the lantern in one hand and his axe in the other. She doesn’t remember the name of the brother, but he’s the only one still in the parlor at this point, everyone else is either asleep or flew off to who-knows-where. The man looks up from the shirt he’s mending, and Wendell begins to become uncomfortable under his gaze by the time he replies.

            “That was Wirt.” He says, eyeing her like he wants to ask something but doesn’t know how to word it.

            “Oh.” Wendell vaguely remembers bright eyes, and branching antlers, but she was half frozen and probably maybe hallucinating at that point, so she isn’t sure how much of that memory is actually accurate.

            “He surprised everyone, saving you like that.” Beatrice’s brother continues. “We—none of us expected him to help you.”

            “Why not?” Wendell asks. “He’s your friend, right? And you guys all helped me. So, why wouldn’t he?”

            “He’s…” The man shakes his head. “Wirt’s different. He doesn’t help people. He just stays out of the way when the rest of us do. He’s a good person, or tries to be, but…he shouldn’t be, really. It’s complicated.”

            “Oh.” Wendell says again. She tries to decipher the man’s words until she finally falls asleep, still curled in her chair in the parlor.

 

▲■▲■▲■▲

 

            She wakes up with the vague impressions of a forgotten nightmare swimming just beyond the reach of conscious thought; images of snow and winding tree branches. Shivering, both from fear and cold, she looks around the still-dark room and sees Greg standing by the fireplace, pouring dark oil into the lantern. The lady from before said something about a lantern too, didn’t she?

            “Why’s it always have to stay lit?” She asks, and Greg startles slightly, his eyes flicking from her to the lantern to behind Wendell’s chair, where she remembers there being a window. When the reply comes, it isn’t from the woodsman.

            “It has to stay lit because it’s got something important inside.” A voice says, and Wendell doesn’t recognize it. She turns to look out the open window, and is forced to swallow a scream, because the shape standing outside is terrifying in the dark. Its form looks barely any more tangible than the rest of the shadows outside, and its antlers twist long and sharp to either side. Its eyes, brighter than the lantern, are staring right at her. The part of her thoughts that isn’t terrified and overrun by fight-or-flight instincts reasons that this creature must be the mysterious Wirt. Greg clears his throat.

            “Wendell, this is my brother, Wirt.” Yup. _Brother,_ though? _Really_?

            “Uh. Hi.” Wendell waves, and Wirt waves back.

            “Hi.” He says casually, as if he isn’t some kind of eldritch horror standing stalker-ish-ly outside the window.

            “He’s the one who carried you out of the snowstorm.” Greg continues.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Wendell says, trying for a smile.

            “It wasn’t a big deal.” Wirt says nonchalantly, and his brother sends him a look that makes it clear that Wirt’s lying. Wendell finds herself more puzzled than before. Then, because her brain to mouth filter has apparently decided to stop working, she asks,

            “Are you the Beast, like that French lady was talking about?”

            Both brothers turn to stare at her.

            “He’s--” Greg starts, but stops when Wendell begins to stammer an elaboration.

            “I mean, just, she talked about bluebirds and a woodsman that travel with the Beast, or something like that, and that’s obviously Greg and the Waldfogels, so, I just thought maybe…” She trails off when she sees Wirt’s form _shake,_ briefly, out of focus, like something out of a horror movie. “Oh god, please don’t turn me into a tree.”

            “Wirt’s not gonna turn you into a tree.” Greg assures her, slightly amused. Then he turns to his brother, waiting for Wirt to help him pacify the girl. “Right?”

            “I don’t just turn people into _trees_.” Wirt grumbles indignantly. “That isn’t even how it works, the Edelwoods--” He cuts himself off, and sighs, closing his eyes. Or, Wendell thinks he closed his eyes, because the two orbs of light just disappeared, which somehow leaves Wirt looking even more frightening.

            “See? You’re safe.” Greg grins at Wendell, who resists the urge to point out that Wirt’s words were less than reassuring.

            “So, you guys are the ones that lady was telling me about? You really do chop _people_ into oil for that thing?” She asks, gesturing toward the lantern with disgust. The brothers both cringe and share a glance that could easily be described as _rueful_.

            “Yeah.” Greg admits. “But it’s a lot more complicated than everyone makes it out to be.”

            He doesn’t offer further explanation, and Wendell is too scared by what the answers might be if she asks more questions, so she doesn’t, just watches in awful silence as Greg pours the rest of the oil into the lantern. The next time she glances toward the window, Wirt is gone.

 

▲■▲■▲■▲

 

            “What’s in the lantern?” Wendell asks Beatrice a couple days later. It all comes back to that, in the end, everything about Wirt, and Greg, and everything, ties in to whatever answers that question, and Wendell can’t stand the itch of _not knowing_. The bluebird’s feathers ruffle nervously, then settle again.

            “It’s not really something he likes people to know.” She says.

            “Come on, please? I’m going to start on my way home tomorrow anyway.” Wendell prods, because she’s feeling braver about asking things now that Greg is in the woods somewhere and Wirt is nowhere to be seen. Beatrice makes a face; the bluebird equivalent of pursing her lips.

            “The lantern has his soul inside it.” She finally admits. Wendell lets out a slow breath.

            “That’s why it has to stay lit?” Wendell asks. “If the flame dies, he dies?”

            “There’s more to it than that.” Beatrice’s feathers ruffle again. “But, in a nutshell, yeah.”

 

▲■▲■▲■▲

 

She gives each of her hosts a hug before she leaves, and they wish her luck she knows she'll need, to find her way home. Then she wraps her scarf thrice around her neck and steps back into the Unknown.

The longer she walks, the more she remembers, about how she got here. The more people she meets that fail to help her, the more she begins to feel that there isn't a way home at all. She hears more warnings, everyone tells her to beware the Beast, and the Woodsman, and not to listen to bluebirds, and Wendell tries to protest the first few times but gives up when it becomes clear that legends are more prevalent then fact, here. Plus, the legends still have roots in fact, anyway, so there isn't all that much to correct when she really thinks about it.

She treks on for more than two weeks, but it seems like longer when there's no way of telling when the sun or the moon is out. Between the clouds and the tree branches overhead, nothing of the sky is visible, and everything's always grey. Wendell wonders if the Unknown is any nicer in the summer. Then she wonders if it ever _is_ summer.

She remembers the last of her situation on the nineteenth day, and she's curled against a tree, crying, when Wirt finds her. He doesn't say anything until she does.

"What is this place?" She asks, trying to get her tears to stop.

"The Unknown." He answers, and she shakes her head vehemently.

"I remember being home." She says. "I remember being at school, with my friends, and we were on the roof, we were messing around. And then I remember, I remember balancing on the ledge, because Violet dared me to."

Wendell stops when she notices the branches wrapping around her ankles. She kicks them away, and stands up. She can't remember what she'd been saying.

"What happened?" Wirt prompts, not even glancing at the branches. Wendell struggles to remember for a second before it comes back to her.

"I fell." She says quietly, confusion and desperation clouding her thoughts. "But that can't be what happened because I'm fine, that's five stories, over the sidewalk, I wouldn't be fine if I tipped over and fell that far headfirst I'd be..."

She trails off, sobs choking her, and Wirt reaches out one spindly hand to rest on her shoulder. The contact is somehow both comforting and so very _not._ Wendell doesn't kick away the branches, this time, until they grow up to her knees.

"I'm dead." She says with certainty, looking to Wirt for confirmation. He draws back his hand, and steps away from her.

"Not quite, not yet." He answers softly. "The Unknown is an in-between."

"There's no way I can go back, though. I've been trying, and no one can help, and I don't know how I could go back after that fall. I'm probably all mangled, and--" She cuts herself off with a shaky breath. "Do you know how to send me home?"

"No." Wirt answers honestly.

"Can I stay here?" She asks hopefully.

"No."

"Why not?" She demands, anger building in her chest.

"Everyone who comes here is claimed by the forest. Their souls belong to the Unknown." To _me,_ is what Wirt doesn't say, but his meaning is clear, all the same. "There are ways to fight it, places you can go to avoid it, so you seem less lost, but everyone, eventually, returns to the forest, and...surrenders. That's, just how things work here."

"What about the Waldfogels?" Wendell asks. "Or Greg? You haven't claimed them. You haven't turned _them_ into trees."

"I _have_ claimed them. The _forest's_ claimed them." Wirt replies, frustration clear, and Wendell retreats a step when his eyes seem to glow brighter than before. He looks down, away from her, before continuing. "Beatrice and her family only haven't turned into Edelwoods because they haven't given up on staying around, yet. It's a struggle to keep the forest off of the Waldfogels every time they leave the house."

"And Greg?" Wendell asks. Wirt wants to spin a lie, about how he cares too much for Greg to let his brother be taken by the woods. He does care about Greg, would kill for him, or die for him-- when Wirt blew out the lantern all that time ago, he did both-- but his love for his brother has nothing to with this, and Wirt isn't about to say as much when it isn't true.

"He has the lantern." Wirt says, after a long silence. "Greg keeps the lantern safe."

"Safe from what?" Wendell demands.

"From me." Wirt replies, looking up at her again, and he can see Wendell struggling not to take another step back from him. "Greg keeps the lantern lit, and he keeps it away from me, so that I won't let it go out. He cares too much to let my soul burn out."

"Then, why is he still around?" Wendell licks her lips nervously. She looks like she knows she'll regret asking, but she presses on anyway. "If you don't want the lantern to stay lit, then why haven't you gotten rid of Greg?"

"Because someone's soul has to be in the lantern. If it isn't me, it'll be someone else. Greg keeps the lantern away from me to keep me remembering that." Wirt watches Wendell kick once more at the Edelwood branches twining around her ankles. They both stand in silence for a long while, and then,

"I'm never going to find my way home." Wendell says with a hopeless finality that'd be comical in most other situations.

"Few do." Wirt replies, and Wendell is too far from caring to realize that it isn't a 'no'.

"Maybe it's better to give up." The girl lets out a slow breath, sinking to her knees as tears roll down her face.

"Maybe." The Beast agrees, barely managing to force the word out. She nods, and lies down in the snow, not moving to tear away the branches that immediately crawl to surround her. They even grow over her scarf, the purple yarn in bright contrast to the dulled brown of the leafless branches covering it.

"Does it hurt?" Wendell asks, her voice small, and Wirt does lie, this time.

"No."

 

▲■▲■▲■▲

 

He lies again, a few days later, when Greg asks about Wendell's fate. He tells his brother that she made it home, and he doesn't know if Greg believes him.

 

▲■▲■▲■▲

 

The scarf isn't all that damaged, once Greg cuts away the wood around it. His singing stops when he finally frees it from the tree. There's no sign of the soul it belonged to, but then again, there never is.

Greg goes home with a bundle of Edelwood on his back that will keep the lantern lit for months, and a purple scarf wrapped around his neck that has Beatrice throwing rocks into the woods well past midnight, screaming at Wirt even though he isn't there. Wirt doesn't show up again for days after that, and when he finally does return, it's when Greg is working, chopping firewood for the house. Surprisingly, it's the Beast that speaks before the Woodsman.

"She wouldn't have made it home." Wirt says, and it's an apology, of sorts, but Greg isn't about to accept it. He keeps working, silent, until Wirt turns to leave, and then Gregory sighs and stops chopping, throwing his axe toward his brother. The blade buries into a tree, in the wood just above one of Wirt's antlers. Wirt turns, and for a second Greg can imagine his brother as he was, lips downturned in a disappointed frown, before the image disappears. There are so many things Greg could say, now, and he considers each of them before stepping forward to retrieve his axe. Wirt, wisely, steps back so that the two of them are still a couple of arms' lengths away from each other. Greg considers everything he could say, and then he speaks.

"You're not the same, Wirt-- _Beast_." He corrects himself, the words quiet enough that for a second he half-dares to hope that Wirt didn't hear him. His brother stares at the lantern, sitting on the ground nearby, and Greg's fingers tighten on the handle of the axe, before Wirt looks away; looks to Greg.

"I know." The Beast says, just as low. "But neither are you, _Woodsman_." Then he's gone, his retreating shape invisible in the shadows.

It's only once he's sure his brother is gone that the Woodsman responds.

"I know."


End file.
